


Like a little stone

by ca_te



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Romance, one-sided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-05
Updated: 2011-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 10:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ca_te/pseuds/ca_te
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What John feels for Sherlock is like a small and compact stone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a little stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jenwryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/gifts).



> This is mainly an attempt to describe John's feelings for Sherlock. This is the first time I try to write a BBC Sherlock fic :)

There are times when John doesn’t even understand what is keeping him there, at number 221b of Baker Street. Because it isn’t clear at all, if he just stops and thinks about it. He could try and find a house on his own, without compulsive flatmates filling up the fridge with heads and ears and whatnot, or invading his personal space with precise perseverance.

But then, on some defined, small but somehow shiny moments, everything is clear for John, every reason and motive. It’s crystal clear when he looks at Sherlock as he sips black coffee in the morning, a pair of almost-grey eyes scanning the newspaper above the brim of the cup. Or when Sherlock twirls his scarf around his neck and says that they’ve got a new case. It’s clear in the way his pulse accelerates and in the way butterflies gnaw at his stomach. Certainly the image of butterflies flying around in his stomach isn’t scientific, but it’s what describes better that sensation. A sensation which John thought to have forgotten, to have lost in that small space between the bullets and the loneliness.

And it doesn’t matter if every time he has to repress that spark of desire which ignites his fingertips and his lips. The desire to feel Sherlock’s skin, to discover the softness of his lips. Because John has observed them many times, he has dreamed of them, during silent, long nights spent tossing around in his bed, wanting to feel Sherlock there by his side.

But he knows that Sherlock is something which he will never be able to have, to touch, to press against the mattress of reality. Sherlock is beyond all that, beyond skin and flesh and desire. He stands there, behind the glass of perception, and John knows that he cannot have a normal relationship with him. He is stuck between a friendship which his heart can’t accept and a relation made up of caresses and kisses which he can only dream of. But underneath all of that there’s a stone, small and compact. John doesn’t want to name it, but it is there nonetheless. It shifts slowly every time that Sherlock grabs the doctor’s arm to drag him out to investigate, every time that John looks at Sherlock after they’ve run to chase after a suspect. There’s something terribly perfect in the way the detective’s eyes shine and his chest rises and falls.

It’s Sunday morning, John sits in the armchair sipping a tea even though it’s already 12 o’clock. Sherlock lies on the sofa, looking at the ceiling, his long and elegant fingers tracing invisible lines in the air. The doctor wonders if maybe he is following the sheet of some piece for violin. He tries to focus on the newspaper opened on his knees, but now and then his eyes run after the figures which Sherlock is drawing, lie on the perfection of those porcelain-like fingers. Something gets stuck in his throat as Sherlock turns his head and looks at him. His eyes are cold as always but there is a spark inside them, something which John would label as amusement if he were facing someone else.  
Sherlock looks at John and a corner of that pale mouth of his quirks up, just for an instant, and John has to blink to assure himself that what he is seeing is true, that he is still in their living room and not in one of his fantasies where Sherlock notices him. He shrugs, trying to shake Sherlock’s gaze off him. The detective doesn’t avert his eyes, he is breathing slowly, his lips slightly parted and John has this absurd sensation that now Sherlock sees him. Sees John the man, and not only John the doctor. John with his little stone hidden inside, with these feelings which can’t be labeled but keep growing. He swallows dry and lowers his eyes. He tries to go back to read, but the words don’t make sense, they’re just lines made of ink.  
John hears the rustling of silk and thinks that probably Sherlock has turned and is now back to his previous occupation. He slowly lifts his eyes and relief washes over him as he sees that he was right. Sherlock is lying on the sofa, looking at the ceiling once again. But there’s something else, beside the relief, something which is similar to longing and disappointment tied together. Because the thought of Sherlock seeing him is scary, but at the same time John feels as if he needs it, Sherlock’s attention, Sherlock’s affection.

John looks at him from behind the newspaper, takes in the lines of his beautiful face, the depth of his eyes. He knows that there’s not much that he can do. He simply has to accept the small weight of that stone which he carries inside.


End file.
